


here's what happens when alone is not enough

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Series: zolf smith v the concept of emotional openness [4]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: AZU IS KENYAN, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fables - Freeform, Gen, POV Azu, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Storytelling, also I repeat: Zolf and Sasha are flatmates and best friends, therapy actually gets done this time guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: See, it’s not that Azu has preferred patients. That would be absurd! The idea of prioritising one person’s care over another abhors her. So it’s not that she has favourite patients, it’s that she has different types of patients who require different types of care.It’s just that she has patients who she can understand, who she can communicate with, who she canhelp,and then she has Zolf Smith.(or, the first time therapy happens in therapy au.)





	here's what happens when alone is not enough

**Author's Note:**

> happy rqg Wednesday! I've got good news and bad news with this fic. good news! therapy au has 14 more works planned in the series. bad news! there's gonna be a bit of a break as I do some heavy lifting on forbidden au. good news! you'll be getting lots of fic from me either way. :) 
> 
> enjoy!

Zolf is sitting on his hands again. That’s bad. Azu knows that’s bad, because the only other times he’s done it are the times when he’s left without saying goodbye. Or the times when she tried to hold him back and he practically bolted when Sasha poked her head through the door, and when Azu walked Sasha back to her car, she could see Zolf in the passenger seat with his head down, tucked between his knees.

See, it’s not that Azu has preferred patients. That would be absurd! The idea of prioritising one person’s care over another abhors her. So it’s not that she has favourite patients, it’s that she has different types of patients who require different types of care.

She has Sam, who is partial to lurking around the office in hopes that Azu might need someone to walk her to the bus stop. Sam, who always makes sure that the doors close safely after her; Sam, who sometimes closes their eyes when Azu is speaking, like they can hear another woman in the sound of Azu’s voice.

She has Sam, who once called her ‘Cleo’ and sobbed into her arms when they realised what they’d done and apologised for not being able to save her. She has Sam, who took a few weeks to open up but now is in the process of being adopted. Gerry Keay has long hair and tattoos and looks at Sam with so much affection that Azu knows that this is a match made in— not heaven, exactly, but by someone watching out for them. It just feels right.

See, it’s not that Azu likes one patient more than the other. Dr Azuibuike Nso has the unique ability to get along with anyone, and to do it well. It’s just that different people need different things. Healing doesn’t have a one size fits all approach.

She has Sasha Jaime - no, not that Sasha _or_ that Sasha, the other Sasha - who was wrongfully imprisoned by a case of mistaken identity and held in solitary confinement for almost a week. Sasha, who paled when she saw heard the other Sasha’s name for the first time. Sasha, who quietly explained that she couldn’t go back to being trapped, alone and underground, in a maze of winding tunnels and cells that killed her as much as they kept her hidden from her friends and family.

She has Sasha Jaime, who is short and freckled and puts as much effort into looking _distinct_ as possible, Sasha Jaime, who won’t be the _Other_ Sasha anymore, Sasha Jaime, who is her own woman, and who demands to be heard. Sasha Jaime has gotten much more confident about speaking up for herself in the past month, and Azu’s proud. Azu is so proud.

See, it’s not that Azu plays favourites. She’s not a grumpy primary school teacher, she’s a therapist, and she’s good at what she does. Azu refuses to treat one person like they’re more important than the other, because everyone is equal. They’re just different, and Azu helps them each in independent and personal ways.

See, it’s not that Azu plays favourites. It’s just that she has patients who she can understand, who she can communicate with, who she can _help,_ and then she has Zolf Smith.

And Zolf is sitting on his hands as everyone files out, as Hamid waves goodbye, as Azu rises and tells everyone that they’ll be meeting same time, same place next week. Sasha Jaime taps Azu on the elbow and says, “Um - thank you. It felt really good to talk today,” and Azu has to physically refrain from sweeping her up in a hug.

“Oh!” she says, beaming. “I am so glad. Please, if you’d like to speak later, please let me know.”

“Sure thing,” says Sasha, and she’s smiling too. “I’ll see you next week, Azu.”

“Have a nice day!”

Sasha leans in to hug Azu briefly, and her heart sings. “Thanks,” Sasha mumbles again, grinning.

“Of _course,”_ says Azu as Sasha makes for the door, and she is so happy that Sasha’s feeling even a bit better.

Zolf is still sitting on his hands, though, which is bad. Azu doesn’t like it. She shuts the door behind Sasha and sits a few seats down from him. “Zolf?” she says softly, and he takes a heaving breath.

“Gimme a minute.”

Azu does, but quickly realises that it’s not going to help in the least. Zolf is sitting on his hands to stop them from shaking and he’s letting out his breath long and slow in an effort not to completely freak out. Zolf is about three seconds away from a panic attack, and Azu has to work carefully.

“Zolf, please look at me,” she says, scooching a few seats down so she can better face him. He lets out a noise that could be a laugh but stops sitting on his hands, pressing his palms to his knees and hunching forward. Nope. This is not what Azu needs, and it’s not Zolf needs either. “Zolf,” she says for the third time, gentle as anything, “I need you to look at me.”

It’s barely a flit of the eyes, but Azu will take it. “Alright. Good. Look to your left, please.”

Another one of those choked-laugh noises and Zolf ducks his head to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut, and oh, no. No, no, no, Azu’s got to do something, and do it _now._ “Zolf, I just need to know you’re listening,” she murmurs, and he nods. “Okay. Good. Good. Focus on my voice.” And Azu is most herself when she’s helping; Azu is most herself when she’s doing good; Azu is most herself when she’s working towards health and happiness and hope.

“I want you to find a rhythm,” Azu says as Zolf lets out a fast, shaky breath. “I’m going to tell you a story about Fadhila and her secret, and I need you to breathe, Zolf. All you need to do is listen, and find a rhythm, and breathe.” Azu is most confident when she’s healing, and Azu knows she’s good at this, and Zolf nods.

“Once upon a time,” says Azu, “there was a girl named Fadhila, and she was the most skilled in her village at finding fruit. All her people knew this, and they did not question it. And the trickster spider Anansi knew this, too, and he wanted to know the secret of her skill.” Azu speaks like a drum, or a heartbeat, the alto of her voice sitting low in her throat, and she is radiant when she is saving the world, one person at a time.

“So when the trickster spider Anansi saw Fadhila walking past his house one day, he told her he was so very hungry, and asked her if he could accompany her while she picked her fruits. And Fadhila agreed, so long as Anansi promised he would keep her secrets.” Azu glances over, and Zolf isn’t hunched so much anymore, which is better. But his eyes are closed and he looks pained, still working to remember how to breathe, so Azu keeps talking.

“Anansi told Fadhila that he liked to eat melons and bananas and pineapples and coconuts, but he especially liked honey,” she continues, “but even the trickster spider Anansi did not notice the gleam in Fadhila’s eye when he mentioned the honey. And so she took him on her path. She took him to beautiful bushes and trees with the sweetest and roundest and juiciest fruit, and each time, Anansi ate all of the fruits and didn’t leave any for Fadhila herself.”

Zolf slumps back into his chair and pinches his brow, and though his eyes are still shut, he isn’t gasping like a drowned man any longer. Azu straightens her back and finishes her story because she is divine when she is working, and she loves with the force of a giant’s beating heart. “When they came across a secret tree deep in the wood,” Azu says, tracing the familiar words, “Fadhila directed the Anansi to a tiny hole with honey inside. And so he climbed inside and he ate until his great stomach was content. But when he tried to climb out, he was stuck, and he called to Fadhila for help.”

And is that a smile she sees on Zolf’s face? Azu isn’t sure, but she hopes so. “But Fadhila was not a silly girl. She told Anansi that if he were not so greedy, he would be able to climb out on his own,” Azu says. “Though she called for help, she called very softly, to make sure no one could hear her whispers. And when her villagers heard the tale of the trickster spider, they knew that Fadhila’s secret to finding perfect fruits must be hers alone. The end.”

There is quiet. There is quiet, and Zolf is breathing, and Azu matches her rhythm to his because he has found it, and she is at her best when she is herself, and she is herself when she is helping.

“Er— thank you,” Zolf says after a moment, clearing his throat.

Azu smiles. “Of course,” she replies. “Are you alright?”

He shrugs. “Fine.” Azu just looks at him. “Alright, I— I didn’t expect Sasha to talk about being held captive, and it— brought up some memories. But I’m fine, Azu, thanks.”

“Zolf,” says Azu firmly, bluntly, because this is how her parents raised her. Be direct, be open, be honest, be kind. This she could not go to school for. “I will not push you to open up to me. You do that on your own time. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, I promise you  don’t _have_ to be fine. That’s why I’m here. To help.”

Zolf is quiet again, and Azu’s voice goes soft, gentle. “If you’re uncomfortable in the group,” she prompts, “I think you could benefit from one-on-one sessions with me. It would be—”

“Azu, I—” Zolf stops. Sighs a bit, like these next words are painful. “I can’t. Not in a — I can’t. Sasha and I are just about keeping the lights on, I’m still looking for a job, and the military is— less helpful than you’d expect. Private sessions aren’t something I—” He takes a sharp breath. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

It’s Azu’s turn to be quiet, now, because she didn’t think about pride, because of _course_ Zolf would expect that she’d want payment, because she cannot stand to see how ashamed he looks as he swallows down stubbornness, because it’s not _right_ to deny someone help when they need it. And the way Zolf is staring at the ground breaks her heart a million times, and Azu is filled with the fire that refuses to let money stand in the way. “How about coffee?”

Zolf wipes his nose, looks up. “What?”

“We’re friends, yes?” Azu asks, and Zolf glances in her direction, wary. “Friends go out to coffee together and talk.”

“What’s your game, Azu?” he asks, suddenly much colder than before, and Azu curses internally. “Look— I appreciate everything you’re doing, alright? Bit if you want information from me, if you want—”

“I don’t want information, Zolf,” Azu interrupts softly, and he falls silent. “I just want you to feel better.”

Zolf stares. Azu smiles gently, softly, and she is the butter-yellow warmth of the sun on a perfect spring afternoon. And Zolf stares like she’s speaking another language, but Azu means what she says, and not everything is lost in translation. “Yeah, fine,” he says at last, clearing his throat. “We can do coffee.”

“Oh, good!” says Azu, beaming, and if Zolf weren’t so skittish, she’d sweep him up in a hug. “I’m so glad.”

And she is. And she finally gets that smile out of Zolf, too. 

* * *

 

(“You did _what?”_ Sasha cries as Zolf pries off his shoes, bolting upright from where she’s been tinkering on the couch.

“I said I went to coffee with Azu,” he repeats, limping to the sofa and sitting down heavily. Sasha pats him on the shoulder, then returns to being morally outraged.

_“Why?”_

“Because she’s nice,” Zolf says flatly, leaning back and massaging the bothersome burn scar over his heart. “You should try it some time.”

“What, are you _friends_ with her or something?” Sasha asks, folding her arms, and Zolf squints in her direction.

“Are you… jealous?”

Sasha huffs, _“No!”_ and stumbles to explain, saying, “I mean — I just don’t get why she would— I mean— listen. I know Azu, or I’m starting to, I think, and I’m good at noticing things, Zolf.”

“Sasha,” he says, closing his eyes and sinking into the cushions, because he has a pretty good idea of where she’s going with this and it’s the exact wrong direction.

“I’m just sayin’,” Sasha continues rambling, “and I’m _not_ jealous, I’m not — I’m just saying —”

 _“Sasha,”_ Zolf repeats, giving up when she inevitably bowls over him.

“You’re just really not her type, mate, from what I’ve seen.” Sasha figures this has been done fairly tactfully, and almost feels a bit bad when Zolf groans.

There’s a short moment of silence. Sasha picks up the set of cogs with which she was tinkering and wrenches a screwdriver between them.

“I am a _gay man,_ Sasha,” Zolf says finally, and oh, she’s pretty sure he’s stifling a laugh. “Did you honestly _forget?”_

Sasha glances over. Zolf is looking at her like she’s made the first joke he’s heard all day. Sasha opens her mouth, then closes it, and Zolf is _definitely_ trying not to laugh.

“I’m just saying not to get any ideas,” she grumbles, her cheeks beet red, and then they’re both laughing, and it’s good.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you as always for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! comments and kudos are dearly appreciated sustenance. hmu on Tumblr @thoughtsbubble or on Twitter @mostlyzoe to talk rusty quill!


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